


now don't you worry we'll all float on alright

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (seriously don't read if you haven't seen The Winter Soldier), Backstory, Bad Jokes, Blake-centric, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, POV Outsider, Painkillers, Pudding, Vignette, everybody loves Skye, i just need Coulson and Blake to be BFFs tbh, post episode 1x16 End of the Beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Okay, he is not an idiot, ten minutes with the girl and he gets it.</i> Or, the rookie pays Agent Blake a visit.</p><p>Post-1x16 "End of the Beginning" (massive Captain America: The Winter Soldier spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	now don't you worry we'll all float on alright

He's eating pudding.

So, see, even if he is out of work and his ribcage is like a crossword puzzle of wires and fractures, there's an upside to everything.

He's not even being sarcastic here – most people would assume he is, because historically he would be, but no, this pudding is one of the most endurable pleasures of a career in SHIELD. Too bad, he thinks, he guesses that's gone too. He guesses the cooks who came up with the recipe (and he's sure it's remained unchanged since 1995, when Blake first experienced recovery in a SHIELD facility after a brush with danger) will now go on to their new jobs at the NSA or, god help them, the FBI. Mortality is not being crushed by Deathlock's foot and spending three days unconscious, mortality is not even discovering that most of his professional life has been a cruel joke told in German, mortality is wondering if this is the last time he is ever going to try this particular brand of chocolate pudding (unless he takes a job at the NSA or, god save him, the FBI).

The fact that he's just spent that much time contemplating pudding must mean the painkillers they gave him are either really good and really bad.

Somebody knocks at his door.

"Agent Blake?"

It's Coulson's agent. The one with the ridiculous name and all the hair.

"I was not expecting any visitors."

She slips inside the room, bold and shy at the same time, like that's even possible. Her eyes study the state of him: from the bruises in his neck, to the half-body cast protecting his abdomen. He's glad his hands are free because, mmm, pudding. It hurts to even breathe, but he's not about to let that show.

"I just wanted to check up on how you were doing,” she says. “How are you doing?"

Blake frowns. " _Why?_ "

He's really not expecting any visitors, and that is just fine – even Claire had only sent him a fucking text, but well, considering that Claire is mostly an evil robot that probably meant she had been scared shitless for him; that or she realized now she has to find another job, too, and she has no skills whatsoever. He's going to write her a letter of recommendation for the FBI. He's either feeling magnanimous or it's the drugs.

But that's just fine, not even Victoria Hand has been in to see him, and while a visit from Coulson has not been out of the realm of the possible (specially now that Coulson is so weird and soft and feelings-prone) he definitely wasn't expecting rookie here to come by. (He wouldn't say no to a visit from Agent May, that would have been fun – but from what he's heard May has a lot on her plate right now)

The girl looks confused. "What do you mean why? To know how you are doing."

"But you don't know me." If she knew him she'd know he wouldn't even go to a hospital to see his own mother. An exaggeration, of course, he would go see his mother. If it was something serious. He's not heartless, he just really loathes these places – except the desserts.

"I know you're Coulson's friend. I know you were following my orders when you got hurt."

Blake doesn't know if he should feel offended by being called Coulson's friend (he's not, okay, even he is not that callous and for what is worth he actually likes the guy) or embarrassed by the naked display of misguided guilt the girl is showing in front of him. That's not how you do things. That's not how you do things at SHIELD. And even though SHIELD is no more that's not how Blake does things. The girl's face is just... oh god, it's so awful, is this how normal human beings are supposed to be? He forgets. And Coulson gets to be exposed to this on a daily basis – no wonder he believes he's Clint Eastwood these days.

He can claim to know Coulson better than most (at least most non-murderous individuals, he's not going to compete with the likes of Agent Romanoff and Commander Hill here), Coulson was already there when Blake joined SHIELD, even though they are roughly the same age, and they had both climbed that corporate ladder fast for a while, together, until both their careers stagnated spectacularly – Blake knew why his had imploded (something to do with his lack of people's skills, and being a general fuck-up circa 2003) but nobody could figure out why Coulson wasn't Vice-director of SHIELD by the time he was forty; after all, Nick Fury loved the guy, everybody knew that. Blake understood, though, why Coulson seemed like an unfulfilled promise. Blake saw he lacked not just the ambition, but probably the conviction as well. Which is ironic for someone who eventually _died_ for the cause, but it always made perfect sense to Blake, and he was kind of comforted by the idea of Coulson always being there, at his level, more or less.

It really sucked when he died and Blake had to deal with the likes of Sitwell (oh well...)

But, that doesn't mean – 

“Who told you we were friends?” He asks, horrified.

“He seemed pretty shaken when you got hurt.”

“That's no reason for you to waste my time and yours coming here and–“

“They operated on you twice,” she points out.

“That's the job,” he shrugs. Coulson should have taught her that already, rookie or not. Don't take it personally, that's the first rule. Or it used to be, and who knows anymore. Coulson is on his own journey and perhaps all the things that made Blake think they were so similar do no longer apply. Perhaps this is what Coulson is now: this girl and her stupidly honest expression. 

"I designed the operation,” she says. “Let me feel a bit responsible. It actually helps me."

Fair enough. It's never a bad idea to exhibit some goodwill towards the younger generations (specially now that he is jobless), children are our future and all that crap. Blake is actually a pretty nice guy, most of the time, ask anyone (don't ask _anyone_ , ask _some_ people). When he's had enough coffee he can even be a great guy. And right now he's kind of high on painkillers so he probably can be charming, too.

"Despite Mr Peterson's best effort I'm still alive, so you're off the hook, Agent... Wait. Do you even have a surname?"

"We're not agents anymore," she says, sounding way too sad.

It's difficult to think about the fact that this girl was, _indeed_ , a proper agent, that they were colleagues.

He remembers when Coulson asked about it – not asked, not for permission, no, he was kindly informing them, he had the badge at hand already, he remembers Victoria Hand doing the Victoria Hand equivalent of an eyeroll (Blake is ever so happy she didn't turn out to be HYDRA, by the way, more than he is willing to admit, not even under torture) and fucking Sitwell was there (and why didn't anyone see that coming, by the way, no man can be such a downer and not be evil, and for the record Blake always knew, he's telling that story now) and Coulson's firm decision and Blake thinking okay, you've definitely lost it here, Phil, but whatever makes you happy.

Even with all the extra weird stuff Coulson has been doing lately – Blake is definitely not judging, because hey, the man was _dead_ , if that's what gets him through it so be it – this is the least Coulson-like stunt yet. He remembers, back in the day, when Coulson was in charge of training new, promising agents for a while (Blake suspects the bosses wanted him in that position because Coulson was particularly set on _drilling_ the rules and protocols into the newbies' skulls even more so than actual useful skills) and the poor souls had to bend over backwards for a fucking Level 1 position and any shred of confidence in them Coulson deemed fit to offer. And now there's this girl in front of him, who hasn't spent one single minute in the Academy and whose calling card had been breaking the law to get into SHIELD, and maybe her new and shiny badge is a relic already but it's still baffling that Coulson made that happen, that he pushed for it – and when in the history of the world had Phil Coulson pushed for anything before.

Blake wonders, having now gone through his own near-death experience, if he's going to turn into a complete different person. Well, all things considered, and seeing where the rest of them have ended up, it's not working out too bad for Coulson. At least he has a plane. The rest have the world's worst severance package.

"It must have been weird for you," the girl is saying, "waking up and finding out all the stuff about SHIELD and HYDRA."

He was relieved, to be honest – not about the organization he worked for being infiltrated and corrupted by a fascist group, no, but about not having to see it go down in real time. It was much better to just wake up, a pain in his chest like a building had just fallen on him (and well...) and have people around him saying _Guess what?_ He prefers it that way and of course there's something wrong with him – his ex-wife had always warned him that he didn't have the appropriate emotional responses to important events. Maybe she was right, but then again... Which exactly is the appropriate response to _Nazis! We were run by Nazis all along!_? You tell him.

"How's Coulson taking it?" he asks, so maybe he can copy Coulson's emotionally inappropriate response instead. Also he is genuinely curious. And worried, and that's not something he's comfortable with. The girl winces. He figured. "That great, uh?"

"He's kind of...” she makes a vague gesture with her hands, then closes down, like she shouldn't be talking about it. “But hey, he wanted to come by and see you himself. He's just a bit busy right now."

Blake guessed. There are few agents you could so intrinsically trust on the fact they are not HYDRA as Phil Coulson. If SHIELD was still functioning they would probably name him director just to be on the safe side. Blake knows Coulson's particular brand of loyalty is a pathology more than a virtue, and to a certain extent that's true of them all (they wouldn't be working here if they were completely functional) but Coulson's is the better story. Whatever the dismantling of their old home entails a man like him is going to be in demand. 

"Tell him he doesn't have to bother visiting. It's not his fault that this is not your fault either."

She smiles. He really doesn't need any visitor, much less Coulson. They have never been that close – if anything there's always been a kind of rivalry between them. Though, now that they are two of the few people in the organization who weren't trying to actively bring about the Fourth Reich maybe they should become friends. 

He goes back to his pudding, only to find out that he's finished it already. He lets out an audible sigh.

“What's wrong?” she asks, alarmed.

“There's no more pudding.”

She looks at him, but not exactly like he is mad. He is not mad. This is really good pudding – it's homemade for fuck's sake, he hopes the guys at the NSA know how lucky they are.

"I can get you extra pudding," she tells him casually.

He sizes her up, skeptical. "You can? You can't. They are pretty strict on the rations here. I _asked_."

"Everything in this facility is computerized, you know, even the menus they serve their patients..." She takes out her phone, makes him wait for a minute while she types something into it. "Yeah, I can make them bring you pudding three times a day – it would just look like doctor's orders."

He has heard about her skills of course – Agent Hand had complained about them, saying it made her _even more of a risk_ and all that paranoia could have been put to better use elsewhere, maybe figuring out the fact that they were being overrun by the Aryan Brotherhood, instead of focused on a twenty-something who liked to play with computers. Everybody in the Hub had heard about Coulson's consultant hacking into a Level 8 panel, it had been that week's choice gossip item. So Blake is inclined to believe she can do what she is promising right now.

"Can you make them stop bringing me boiled vegetables with my chicken? They're gross."

The girl, okay, _Skye_ , he knows her name, he's done being a douchebag here, she grins. "Easy."

He nods his head, appreciative. "Maybe Coulson is not such a doofus, if he got you on his team."

He feels the temptation to say something more, something about SHIELD agents in mid-life crises and too-young girl rookies who work _under them_ – but for some reason he thinks better of it, and that has to be a fucking first, since when has he passed up a chance to make fun of Coulson, since when has he kept his big mouth closed. He does now and he feels bizarre for it, but something tells him this not something he wants to tease the girl about.

"By the way, you must have set a record for shortest lived career as a SHIELD agent."

"Yeah, you guys gave me a badge and next thing that happens is I break SHIELD." His eyes widen at the dark humor in there. Skye mistakes it for anger. "Sorry, I make ill-adviced jokes when I'm uncomfortable. Or scared."

"Well, we are all in the same what-do-we-name-this-boat boat. We're all out of work."

"Yes, but I bet you have a much better retirement plan than I do."

"I'm going to miss my parking privileges, that I can say," he says. "You don't know how bad it gets in D.C."

She chuckles. Blake kind of looks at her, really looks at her, for the first time ever. Up close she doesn't look so young – something about her eyes. She seems like an old soul, that's it.

“What's your sign?” he asks.

“I don't know?”

“Your birthday?”

“I'm not entirely sure of the exact – look, it's a long story.”

“You guys are so weird. I'm gonna enjoy some legally prescribed morphine now."

Because seriously, this afternoon he's dealt with more emotional honesty than he's had this whole past year – or the entire length of his marriage (maybe it's the brush with death, he's thinking about his ex-wife so much, he wonders where she is; he's seen the list, at least she is not HYDRA either, that would have been unfortunate). He's exhausted. This girl is exhausting. How does Coulson even do it.

"Good. I'll keep the pudding coming. And I'll tell Coulson you're feeling better."

" _Better_ is such an ambitious words," touching his hand to his chest.

"I'll tell him you're going to be fine, then. Actually... I think we're all going to be fine," Skye tells him, looking him straight in the eye.

He stares at her. He kind of believes her.

Okay, fine, he gets why Coulson might want this girl around, _all the time_.

"I think you're right, _agent_."

Yeah, even he is surprised at himself. But she has promised him pudding and he is not as skeptic as people think he is, not by a mile, he just likes to play one.

Skye seems to appreciate it, a little too much, mouth curved and wide. That's okay, he guesses, he's a bit fed up with seeing the same expressions around him, all those faces that say _We were duped by Nazi scientists!_ and no, Blake can't get over it either. Perhaps when he is on less medication and has had time to process it (beyond his agreement with Claire's comprehensive text on the situation: “ _oops_ ”) he'll stop making jokes about it. That's probably not true: the jokes will probably just get more elaborated. That's how he deals. The nurses deal by asking everybody for references. Everybody looks like the family pet has just been run over by a (Nazi) truck.

It's good to see someone smile around here.

It's good to see someone who still has faith.

And yeah, he has never been stupid, or blind, he gets it, the girl, Skye, the whole thing, he really does.

She leaves just as easily as she came – a slight nod as farewell and not a handwave as he was fearing. We're all SHIELD agents here, let's be dignified.

Twenty minutes later the staff arrive with some more chocolate pudding for him, just around the most pleasant bit of his painkiller high and when later that night his dinner tray doesn't include one single boiled vegetable Blake can't help himself, he thinks: _Nicely done, Coulson_.


End file.
